Edge Running
by Habu
1 Jun 2023 722 readers Score 9.6 (15 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt
Edge Running Cambodia
As hedonistic as Thailand was, they didn’t allow casino gambling there. They didn’t allow it in the other countries bordering Cambodia, either—Laos and Vietnam—so Cambodia, still hard up for foreign capital, was cleaning up on that market. Cambodia had picked Poipet, a sleepy border entry town on the Cambodian-Thai border on one of the only roads leading into Cambodia from anywhere, and made it into a hedonist, almost-anything-goes frontier town where gamblers and sexual thrill-seekers could gather largely outside of the scrutiny of anyone else in the world.
What played in Poipet stayed in Poipet was much more assured than Las Vegas’s claim to that phrase.
We were coming down low. I didn’t hear landing gear coming down, as I’d never heard it going up. All I could see were the lights of a town below, with one main, neon-lit street. I was told that the Grand Diamond City Casino was only a short walk from the border checkpoint in Poipet and that Poipet wasn’t much of a town other than a couple of casinos, the Grand Diamond City being the largest, and a couple of blocks of bars and brothels.
We overflew the town to where darkness was all that stretched out below us into the interior of one of the world’s most isolated and primitive countries. It was nearly midnight. Then three lights came on in a row, which were answered by three more in a parallel line. Kevin Lu brought the plane down on a sort-of level stretch of field between the lights. As we were coming down, I could see that the illumination was being provided by the headlights of vehicles.
Lu rolled to a stop, and I heard him exclaim an explicative, as the pilot’s door was jerked open and he was pulled out of the plane. I didn’t have time to wonder about that other than the sensation that this obviously wasn’t the reception he’d been planning to receive, because my door was jerked open too, and I was being pulled out of the backseat of the small plane by muscular Asian guys in dark uniforms. Standing beyond them, picked out in the headlights of one of the vehicles and loosely holding something like an AK-47 like he knew how to use it, was a Western guy. He was taller than the Asians, wiry but muscular, a Marine buzz cut—in fact he had U.S. Marine written all over him, except he looked to be in his late forties—a very fit and in-command late forties, albeit one who was graying. There didn’t look to be an ounce of fat on his body—tall, ramrod straight, all business, no smiling. To me, he was sexy as hell. He was a poster child for commando. I couldn’t help letting my gaze go to his basket—it was an occupational “thing” with me—and to wonder if he was going commando. There was definite signs of curve and thickness there.
“What?” I said to the Asians holding me and looking like they expected me to say something. “I’m not really with this guy. Just was catching a ride. I’ve got a job to go to at a casino here—The Grand Diamond City. I’m not really with this guy.”
“They can’t understand you.” The Western guy spoke. “They understand some English, but not being delivered as fast as you’re letting it spill out.” The voice was low, cultured—calm, sounding a bit amused. Totally in control and obviously used to the role. “You need to slow down. We got this. You’ll be fine.”
“Sorry, this doesn’t happen to me often,” I said.
“My impression is that it does,” he said. “You’re Doug McClure, aren’t you? You’re on the run from a drug lord in Bangkok—Dusit Thanat—aren’t you?”
That got my attention. It also exploded any clever retort I might have given. Into the void that created, he said something to the Cambodian policemen or soldiers, or whoever they were, and they released me and backed off.
He clearly was in control here if not formally in charge and he understood English—he had an American accent—and he knew who I was. That meant he probably knew why I was here. To hide from Dusit Thanat, yes, but that I really did have a job here. So, I tried what was important with him.
“I’m not really with this guy. I mean I know him. His name is Kevin Lu, and he’s some sort of dealer as well as a pilot. But I didn’t know he was the one who’d fly me here. And I didn’t know what he was hauling. I’m not any part of his business. I mean I found it. It’s here in the backseat, under the cushion of the seat next to the one I was sitting in.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he barked, his exclamation cutting through the night like a knife. “Come here.”
As I stumbled forward, he waved the Asians—Cambodians, I assumed—back and they turned their attention to the plane, having been joined by other uniformed Cambodians. There was no sign of Kevin Lu. They were going over the plane like ants. They’d find the drugs at any moment.
He put a hand on my arm when I came closer and lowered his voice.
“Don’t give these guys ideas,” he said. “I know you’re not connected to the drugs. I knew Dusit Thanat was flying drugs in tonight. I know you are supposed to dance at the Grand Diamond City. I know that you’re a prostitute too—and a doctor. Roger Allard told me about you. We work together in some ways. I also know that you would never have gotten to the casino. Dusit Thanat knew you were on the plane. Kevin Lu was assigned to take you out and leave you in this field.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I said, meekly. I was trembling. He ran his hand up and down my arm. “I have a job to come to here; that’s all I know.”
“You wouldn’t really have that either if Allard hadn’t talked to another dancer in your troupe and found out what you were up to. No one arranged for you to have a job here. That should tell you something about the connections, whoever you were relying on in Bangkok is with Dusit Thanat’s crime organization. You would never have gotten off this field alive.”
I shivered in the knowledge of the implications he was pointing to. I couldn’t rely on Kenon Jackson and his contract with me—at least with his setup in Bangkok. At this minute I was at the mercy of this American soldier of fortune, or whatever he represented.
“I can get you away from here,” he said. “I’ve already established with these men that you weren’t ever here. My office works closely with them. We don’t rely a lot on regulations and red tape. But we have to walk away now. We’ll go to where you thought you were going. You can show up for work tomorrow morning—I’ve made the necessary arrangements for that. The casino’s glad to get you.”
“Why again are you doing this for me?” I asked. “What do you get out of this?” He didn’t answer directly, but I didn’t have trouble latching to a partial answer to that question. He had me fully in his grip now. His free hand had slipped down to cupping my buttocks. “Oh, fuck,” I said. “You want a free piece of me just like Allard got.”
“I’m checked in at the Grand Diamond City,” he said. “We’ll go to my room, and you’ll give me what you gave Roger Allard last night. Roger told me he cautioned you not to leave Bangkok without telling him. You should have heeded him. But he says you’re a great lay, that you do it really well—that you’re easy, can make yourself loose or tight on demand, and give a guy a good time.”
After a brief check in with the management office of the Grand Diamond City Casino, he guided me up to a suite in the casino’s hotel tower, unceremoniously stripped me, and laid me in a business-like, no-messing-around manner in the doggy, missionary, and crab positions. He fucked me all night, and he did it a lot better than the U.S. Embassy Bangkok staffer, Roger Allard, did. All the time he was at it, I increasingly got the impression he wasn’t doing it just for pleasure—although there was pleasure enough in it for both of us. This was some sort of tryout. I understood that he was asserting a master-and-submissive relationship. He fucked me expertly, so I didn’t bother to struggle against it.
It started in front of the full-length mirror on the reverse side of the closet door. We stood there, both naked, him taller than I was and more muscular. All hunky Marine of a certain age. He cupped my chin with one hand and palmed my belly with the other, tilting and lifting my buttocks so he could work his thick cock up into my channel, deep. He fucked me from behind, holding my head captive, face forward, looking into the mirror, with him looking over my shoulder, both of us watching the effect on my facial expressions and the shuddering of my body at the working of his mastering cock inside me. I had one hand thrown back, clutching one of his undulating buttocks cheeks, feeling it expand and contract as he fucked me. I stroked myself off with the other, my jism splashing against the mirror we were facing long before he was finished inside me. He was thick and long, and he knew what he was doing. He took his time and edged me, taking me to the edge and then backing off and taking me to the edge again. He invaded my soft core and fucked me there, deep, possessing me fully, flooding me with his cum when he wanted to, breeding me, establishing that he was my master.
Later, he fucked me on the bed, both in a close-hold missionary and even later in a possessive doggy. He had said he knew I was a prostitute, which was more than I had admitted to myself. That night, though, I was a prostitute for him. I gave him whatever he wanted, and he wanted it all. I lay docilely in his firm, capturing embrace, opening fully to him, working hard to stretch to his need while staying loose, relaxed to maximize the depth he endeavored to reach. He wanted to conquer, and conquer he did.
His was one of the biggest, most vigorous, demanding, possessing cocks I’d ever taken. I would never forget it or what he could do with it. I both feared it and ached for it, and however I related to him later was referenced by what he had swinging between his legs.
When he finished, as light was beginning to filter into the room through the windows and he rose from me, I remained there, on my back, legs spread and bent, thighs turned out, pelvis elevated by the leverage of my feet pressing into the sheets, my arms extended out in a sacrificial position, my hole gaping open, dribbling his cum. I was moaning, still panting shallowly, and purring, never having been taken that cruelly and gloriously and that many times in a night.
He stood there for the longest minute, beside the bed, looking down at me with a little victorious smile on his face.
“Right, that’s you now. You are mine to do as I will with you.”
“Yes,” I murmured in answer, having no idea at all of what that would entail, but knowing that it was base truth.
But the master wasn’t finished yet. He sauntered off to the bathroom, and when he returned, he came up on his knees between my thighs on the bed again, wrapped an arm around my waist to elevate my pelvis more, thrust up inside me, and fucked me again.
“Again,” he muttered. “Be my whore.”
“Yes,” I answered, with a deep moan.
* * * *
“Down on all fours,” he said as I came out of the bathroom in the light of the next day. I dropped down into a doggy position. He was sitting on the side of the bed, naked and in magnificent erection, his legs spread.
“Crawl over here on your hands and knees and take me in your mouth. Suck me.” I did as he commanded, turning all control over to him.
He ran his fingers into my reddish-blond curls and held my head into his crotch as I gave him head. “Is it true what Roger said about you—that you really are a doctor? Not just a dancer and a good lay, but a doctor, as well?” Sam Winterberry asked.
That’s who he told me he was, in morning’s light. Sam Winterberry, of the U.S. government, but not tied down to a particular job overseas—just a rover helping to ensure U.S. national interests were being served. He didn’t have to tell me that he probably was with the CIA. I guess that meant Roger Allard, who said he worked at the American Embassy in Bangkok was too. So, running along the edge entailed falling in with spies, I decided. It least they were American spies. Still, it scared the hell out of me.
Being the man’s bitch scared me too, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that. He had mastered me and now was training me. When he barked at me to go on all fours, crawl to him, and suck him off, I went down on my hands and knees, crawled to him, and took him in my mouth. Unless I could gain the strength to break away from him, I was his bitch.
Winterberry hadn’t given me a name the previous night. I hadn’t been interested in who he was—beyond the fact that he had a hard body and a huge cock and knew how to use it—and he did have a huge cock and he did know how to use it. He also knew how to make me his sex slave. Last night it was like he was just putting me through my paces, testing what I could and would do for a man in sex. Now he was working on making me his slave in intelligence operations too.
Having established his master position, he pulled me off his cock.
“Down on your back on the floor,” he said, obviously testing me on my total submission. I went down on my back.
“Arms straight out, in the position of sacrifice.” I complied. “Bend and spread your legs; feet on the floor, lifting your tail high.” I went into that position and he stood, crouched between my thighs, and palmed the small of my back with one hand while putting the bulb of his erection at my hole with the other. I gasped and panted as he penetrated, taking his time to reach depth. Clutching and spreading my butt cheeks with his hands, he pulled and released to match the rhythm of his deep thrusts. I moaned at his total possession of my ass channel, fucking me deep in long, slow thrusts. He was master and I was slave. Every sensation I could muster was marshalled to experiencing his thick, long shaft inside my channel, working me, stretching me, mastering me. I was his for however he wanted to use me. Hovering over me and grunting in his own effort, his eyes captured mine, conveying the same message. He was my master; I was his slave. Thrust, thrust, thrust.
He didn’t finish me there though. After a while, he withdrew, pulled me up from the floor and laid me on my back on the bed, moving onto the bed himself. I offered no resistance, letting him maneuver and place me as he wished. I immediately assumed the position, on my back, legs spread and bent, feet on the mattress, elevating my pelvis, offering myself to him. But he didn’t mount me. He stretched out beside me, working my body with his hands. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Are you an accredited doctor?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?” Winterberry had fucked me in a side split when we both had awakened in the morning, and we were stretched out against each other on the bed again. He was stroking me with a hand. I knew we’d fuck again before facing the day. He pulled away from my cock, now throbbing for him, and lit up a cigarette. He had an arm around me, his hand playing with one of my nipples. My hand was playing with his cock. He was massive even in half erection.
“You owe Roger Allard and me your life. And you owe your country big time because Roger and I have saved you.”
“I understand that,” I said. “So, you want me to do something for you—for the interests of the United States? Because I’m a doctor?”
“Because you are a doctor, yes, but also because you are an American and will be in the male dance troupe here and because you are a delectable prostitute.”
“So, I satisfy you in bed?”
“You do fine; you will do fine for our purposes,” he said. That wasn’t a ringing endorsement, and I thought I’d done more than just fine with him, so I didn’t pursue that more deeply. I was smitten by him. I had wondered if I had gotten to him enough that even though it looked like he was in control, I was more so because of his need for me. He was indicating that, no, he definitely was in full control here.
Winterberry continued. “Allard and I are working a project together—for U.S. intelligence. You are the young man we need in the position we need—a need we have now, in the next few days.”
“So, you want me to let someone of your choosing fuck me?”
“Yes. A Chinese agent, here in the hotel, in a few days. We want you to be as compliant for him as you are being with me. We’re not sure when he’ll arrive, coming from Shanghai. Gamblers come here from all over Asia. We’ll set everything up, but you’ll have to take the seduction to the completion. And if that goes well, you’ll go under a Thai warlord for us some time after that, as well.”
“And the doctor angle?”
“We don’t want to just compromise the Chinese agent—the room, here at the hotel, will have surveillance cameras to help do that. We also want to interrogate him—and to double him.”
“You and this Chinese agent are going to fuck me together?”
He laughed. “No, doubled as in turning him to be our agent with the Chinese thinking he is still their agent. We want you to give him the needle.”
“I couldn’t be any part of killing someone,” I said. “I swore an oath as a doctor.”
“We don’t want him dead. We want him recruited, and we want you to go somewhere with him—wired up. We need a doctor, though, to make sure he’s in good shape after we have mined him for information. You’ll be helping to keep him alive and healthy, not killing him. Can you inject a man with a manageable dose of sodium pentothal that would encourage him to tell us the truth as he knows it and monitor him while we’re interrogating him to ensure he comes out of it OK?”
Oh.
I didn’t say more, as he’d stubbed his cigarette out in a tray on the nightstand and was using his hands to tell me we were going to have sex again. It was sex, pure and simple—there was no affection involved. It could be cruel and brutal with no consideration of my wants and needs. He had sex on me, using me for his primeval needs, subjugating me to his will and control. Fucking me to gain and maintain control over me. But in him taking what he wanted, he fulfilled me too.
He rolled over on top of me and he had sex on me again. I just lay there, being as open to him as I could manage, being stretched and worked deep by one of the biggest cocks I’d ever taken, and he ravished me. Once again every fiber of me focused on the long, thick cock moving inside me, using me totally.
It was sex, not love. I was just a prostitute for him—and a tool in his spy case. For me, he was all consuming. I was totally possessed by a cock that stretched and worked me, finding every secret corner inside me, caressing and punishing me, taking me to the edge and then backing off only to return again in even more mastery, making me feel that I never could get enough of his possession, sinking into the spongy core of me and dwelling there, sending me through waves and waves of explosive satisfaction.
“Oh, shit. Fuck. You’re too deep. You’re taking it all. You leave me nothing. Oh, fuck. Oh, FUCK!”
I hung on tight to him, sobbing and moaning, as, barebacking me, he tensed and jerked and released his seed deep in my core. And then again and again. He filled me, consumed me, with his hot cum.
I continued to sob, the two of tightly entwined in a close embrace, as he remained deep inside me, jerking with short releases of cum, nonstopping breeding. “Don’t worry about this,” he murmured. “We test often, and we have pills for this. I have pills for both of us. In case you wondered I have enhancement pills too.” He immediately showed what he meant by that.
Still hard, he slowly pulled out of me, with me moaning the loss of the mastering shaft inside me, but then, just as he was losing connection, he laughed, plunged back inside, and fucked me again in rapid, vigorous thrusts. I lay back, fully open, back arched, arms and legs spread, killing me with his thrusts, until, with another gush of cum, he seeded me deep again. I lay there, entirely open, totally vulnerable, as, in wave after wave, he pumped me full of his cum.
Afterward, he told me that I would do quite nicely for their plans, so the previous night and this morning had also been somewhat of a test I had had to pass with him.
He had conquered me. He scared me spitless, but when he had finished me that morning, I was his. I would do anything he demanded of me—including going down on all fours, crawling to him, and taking him in my mouth; including going under a Chinese guy or a Thai warlord, or anything else Winterberry wanted me to do—any two or three of them together, if that’s what Winterberry wanted.
Every other man was just a john to me. Winterberry had established himself as my master—and that scared the hell out of me.
Intrigued, the doctor in me roused, I said, “Tell me about these pills you people have access to to protect men from STDs—and to hold erections and produce cum like that.”
He did, and I would probably would have signed up with his service just to have access to those pills.
* * * *
The accommodations the casino assigned to me in the Grand Diamond City Hotel weren’t grand and they weren’t anything like the suite that I left that morning to go report in for duty with the entertainment manager. The dancers of the male dance troupe, which did two shows nightly in a small theater tucked away in a remote area of the sprawling casino complex bunked together in one dormitory-style room under the eaves in the hotel wing. There were five of us now that I had arrived, and the other four were glad to see me. I was the oldest and most experienced of the dancers. They were one of Kenon Jackson’s foreign service troupes, trained in and sent from New York, so I knew all of their routines and fit in quickly. Only three or four went on stage in a show, so I didn’t have to be at all performances. As lead dancer, I could choose when to be there and not and could call what dances we’d do, how stripped down we’d be, and what special show we might give the guys at any specific performance.
The primary shows were the girlie ones, of course, of which there were a variety, from tame to strip and get fucked on stage. Our dance troupe did two separate shows—well, three, really—each night. The 8:00 p.m. show was to a mixed male and female audience, mostly female, although there weren’t that many women who patronized the casino. The Poipet operation was pretty much of a pioneer fringe nature. Most women in the town were prostitutes serving the men who found their way to this remote spot. There were male brothels too, and one of the first warnings I received was not to go out of the casino alone or I probably, as a cut-body Westerner, would be kidnapped, locked up in a brothel, and gangbanged until I expired. Women came over from Thailand with their boyfriends and sugar daddies, though, and left their men on the casino floor in the early evening to watch Chippendales-quality man flesh strutting themselves on the stage. This apparently conditioned the women to be able to take the cocks of their fat and ugly, but rich, boyfriends later that night.
The biggest show was at 11:00 p.m. and was attended mostly by men, who enjoyed watching Chippendales-quality man flesh strut the boards and fantasize what they’d do with the men if they had a chance. Some of them paid for the chance—booking a room at the hotel. The richer patrons came at this hour, observing a schedule of watching a show, picking out a dancer, wining and dining him, going to the casino tables for a couple of hours, and then taking the dancer to their hotel room for the night.
The 1:00 a.m. show was a strip show—and, on occasion, it was a fuck show too, with just one of the dancers stripping and being fucked on stage by another dancer, one of the casino’s big bruiser bouncers, or one of the patrons. On really special show nights, the audience was restricted to a few high-paying high rollers—fucking or being fucked on stage by one of the dancers. I didn’t pull that duty for the short time I was at the casino. I did do a strip-and-be-fucked-onstage show, though, usually giving it to one of the casino’s bruising bouncers rather than to another dancer.
Between shows, from 7:00 p.m. to 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. the next morning, the dancers—both male and female—were required to roam the public areas of the casino hotel, primarily on the casino floor, and mix with the clientele. We wore distinctive attire, depending on the day—white, tight, silky trousers topped with sequined T-shirts, deep cut at the neckline and sides. The shirts were of different colors, depending on the day. It was easy to pick us out, though. We were charged to be friendly and accommodating and to push drinks and the information on how easily rooms in the hotel could be booked by the hour. Half of what we made in those rooms went to the house. There were windows right next to where you bought chips to play the games where you could pay to use the rooms and the dancers.
I did pull that duty from the first night I was there, and became a favorite, in high demand, quickly becoming intimately familiar with all grades of rooms in the hotel. Sam Winterberry was booked in the most luxurious room. My own, shared dormitory room, where we weren’t permitted to take patrons, was probably only a bit better than where the support crew that lived on premises were housed.
* * * *
The 1:00 a.m. show was a “let all of the stops out” revue at the whim of the head dancer, which could, by hand signals to the other dancers and the stage hands take the dance, as it progressed, off into various fetish and kink options. We had danced totally naked and flopping in the breeze most nights, but by the end of my first week in Cambodia, it had come to the time when I was comfortable with putting on a really graphic show and was randy enough to do it.
There were four of us on stage that night, two chiseled blonds, me being one—a natural reddish blond—a tall and lithe Chinese-American dude we called Fong, who was in the mix so that the Asian patrons, being in the majority, would have one of their own to fantasize over, if they wished; and a giant, muscle-bound black bull named Horace. We were dancing in red-spangled jock straps, barely covering us in front and leaving our wiggling and undulating buns exposed. The music was a bump and grind and the strobe lights were frenetic. We were all trained to strut our stuff in languid, deeply suggestive, fluid-movement undulations, building up to stripping down and continuing the dance of the fuck with nothing on but our boots.
There was a good-sized audience out there, and they were raucous from the beginning. I was an exhibitionist—you really had to be to be a dancer in a troupe like this. I had a great body and I loved showing it off. In our standard act we’d strip off the jock straps right at the end, posing and perhaps taking our erections—erections I provide for with pills I prescribed—in hand for no more than three or four seconds, and then the lights went out. I didn’t mind showing it all for longer. I didn’t mind being touched or fondled in front of an audience. I didn’t mind even being fucked on stage.
In Bangkok I hadn’t gone all that way. Our troupe had played the classier venues, such as they were. The stage work was a teaser. The big money was in the offers to go with patrons afterward. The off-premises patrons liked to think they were getting something those back in the theater couldn’t have. The cheesiest shows in Bangkok had sex on stage, but the dancers didn’t make the big money there. The patrons got their rocks off right there, in the theater, all by themselves, watching the dancers go all the way. In the next step up, dancers who flashed got invited to rooms afterward, but not by big spenders. Those who teased of glories to be experienced but not just by anyone—not just for the price of admission to the shows—were the ones who got asked out by high rollers who wined and dined them before laying them.
This was Poipet, somewhat akin to a Wild West town in the States during the goldrush. It was just across the Cambodian border from Bangkok. There were high rollers coming over from Bangkok and from even further afield, but I had looked at who was coming to the shows. The rich daddies came to the 11:00 show, picked out their dancer for the evening if they were horny, took them back to the casino tables for a couple of hours of play after wining and dining with them, and then took them to their suites upstairs and fucked them—or were fucked by them—until dawn. I was one who would fuck as well as be fucked.
The 1:00 a.m. crowd in Poipet wanted to see the dancers let loose while they stroked themselves off right there in the theater. It was time I gave them a show.
I had Fong, and the other blond flank me near the front of the stage for the first twenty minutes of the show. We danced for the crowd, working our bodies, showing off our fine form, our fluid male sexiness, and our flexibility, turning for them, slowly gyrating, bringing attention to our oiled bodies and muscles, including the one out front between our thighs, and our bulbous glutes. I had the black bull, Horace, dancing around in back of us from one side of the stage to the other initially, but then, as time went by, I had him coming in behind each of us, in turn, coming in increasingly close, bringing his big black hands around our bodies to palm our pecs and stroke down our bellies, and to fondle our baskets.
The crowd loved this. But they went wild when, at the twenty-minute mark, I had Horace come behind me, all of us still dancing in an undulating beat, and rip off my jock strap. It never ceased to get a gasp from the audience when they realized that I was a natural reddish-blond—that it showed in my well-trimmed, quite evident, pubes. For a minute, he stood close behind me, palming my chest with one brown hand and stroking me erect with the other. I laid my head back in his shoulder, slitted my eyes, put a small smile on my lips, and purred for him.
Brown hands on white bodies really turned on a largely Asian crowd, most of whom had some shade of brown hands themselves. They were aroused by someone like them having license to touch a hard-bodied Caucasian man here, there, and everywhere. If he slitted his eyes and purred from the attention, it made them go hard.
Horace left me and went to each of the dancers flanking me, in turn, and did the same with them. To remain a center of attention, though, I made sure I was standing on a revolving circle inset in the center of the stage that could be elevated, I signaled to the stage hands, and they raised me two and a half feet. I reached back, undid the band holding my hair back, and shook out my curls, letting my hair cascade, in full wavy body, down to my shoulders. This was a signal to the dancers and stage hands that we were going all the way with this show—that this would be a “fucked on stage” performance. My naked dance then, me clothed only in shiny red-leather boots, was, by design, more provocative than those of the dancers flanking, but now lower, than me. This still gave the audience the choice of who to watch—which of us they wanted to fantasize about. But it put me centerstage.
We ginned it up another notch, enticing another gasp and cheers from the audience, when Horace jerked off his own jock strap, revealed a jet-black monster cock in full erection, leaped up on the revolving inset behind me, and went back to sexing me from behind. Horace was all enthusiasm for this. He’d been trying to get his dick inside me since I’d arrived, and I’d held him off for this moment. I could tell that he was as aroused by fucking someone on stage in front of an audience as I was in being covered there. He slid his cock in under my balls and I parted my thighs enough for the audience to see the bulb of Horace’s cock there while we continued gyrating against each other.
We made sure the audience “got it” with exaggerated movement when we went up the next level and Horace lifted me and, when I slid back down his body, I took his shaft into my channel. The slowly revolving inset made quite clear that he really was inside me and lifting and lowering me on his cock, barebacking me. I used my facial expressions to assure the patrons that Horace was almost too big for me to take, but that I was loving it.
The audience went wild when a circular piece rose within the center of the inset, providing a small table on which I could rest my belly, stretching out horizontally, as Horace, maintaining the purchase of his monster cock, could stand behind me, between my thighs, and raise my red-booted ankles on both sides to his shoulders. He then grasped my wrists and arched my back, bowing my torso back to him. The position was stunning, showing off my flexibility—the dying swan being totally fucked by the big, black bull.
The music got louder, the beat increasing, and the strobe lights became frenetic. The side dancers gave a masturbatory display as they danced. The center inset slowly revolved, clearly showing me—as I did with my facial expressions also—that the big, black bull was fucking the hell out of me. And the audience lost itself in response.
We gave them a full five minutes of wanton fucking and masturbation by four beautiful male bodies before the stage went black and we cleared it before the lights went up.
I’ll bet for months afterward the 1:00 a.m. show was packed in anticipation of getting a performance that arousing. I know my private bookings went up significantly from that night. As long as I had a great body to be proud of and I could make money by exhibiting it and letting it be worshiped it in public, I would make the most of what I had.
* * * *
I was working in the casino in Poipet for a bit more than a week before the Chinese agent operation came down. It hadn’t taken me long to settle in to a routine and I didn’t mind the work. It certainly was lucrative in the side work, which usually wasn’t all that hard. On the whole, the Asians taking me to their rooms weren’t built large and they just wanted a fast poke, a story to tell about spiking the American dancer, and then be back at the tables. Amusingly, several of them wanted the position I’d been in on stage in the 1:00 a.m. show with Horace. Few of them could manage it.
On the Chinese agent night, Sam Winterberry escorted me onto the casino floor a little past midnight, after I’d changed into the uniform of the day, tight white silk trousers, slick black-leather boots, and a gold sequined T-shirt with deep plunges in the neckline and arm holes so that the material billowed away from the torso enough that it was apparent that I had a great body. When I could I stood in front of fans, which blew the material of my T around, giving folks teasing glimpses of my nibs and the curve of my pecs.
The mark was sitting at a roulette table. He was an ugly, middle-aged guy several inches shorter than I was and with a paunch on him. Oh, well, I thought. I wasn’t expected to fall in love with him, and this actually made it easier for me to lie to him and put him in danger. Two men, who I presumed were colleagues of Winterberry’s, vacated the chairs at the table just to the Chinese guy’s right as we approached the table. I sat next to the Chinese man, turning my head and giving him a smile, and Winterberry sat to my right.
“I hope this seat isn’t taken,” I murmured, as I settled in.
“No, certainly not,” the man said. “I saw you on stage just now,” he added. “You’re a very sexy young man. My name is David. May I buy you a drink?”
We were on our way. “I’m Doug,” I said. There was no use lying about that as my photo, with that name, was on a board outside the entrance to the theater I performed in. He’d revealed he’d seen the show. It wasn’t my real name anyway. “If the gentleman here doesn’t mind, I’d like that,” I added.
Winterberry, who was pretending to be half looped, scowled and gave a surly, “If it means I don’t have to buy one for you.” His act was to be an obnoxious bore. He was providing grounds for me to leave the table with the man calling himself David, but who I’d been told was a Chinese-national gun dealer from Shanghai named Chao Tse-ho.
I toasted “David” with the drink that showed up and gave him a warm smile. The two men on either side of me played the roulette table for a while. I was part of the entertainment, so it was a given that I wasn’t there to gamble.
While they played, the Chinese gun dealer engaged me in chit chat, I flirted with him, and Winterberry brazenly and crudely fondled me and made himself overbearing and obnoxious. While Winterberry increasingly turned to showing interest in the spinning of the roulette wheel, the Chinese man was encouraged to turn his attention increasingly to me. I touched him in encouragement, and he bit, increasingly touching me and smiling at me and leaning into me to whisper compliments. He ordered me another drink, which I accepted. It was an understanding here that two drinks bought for one of the dancers here was good for the start of negotiations on a trip up to the hotel rooms. I brought Chao’s attention to that hotel policy.
“Are we wasting each other’s time here or am I seeing an option to going upstairs with this other man?” I asked, as Winterberry was having a little argument with the croupier.
“I’m definitely interested,” Chao whispered back, taking my opening as license to let his fingers trace my cock through the silk of my trousers. I managed to stir down there for him.
When he’d established himself as a nasty lush and cussed out the croupier, Winterberry rose from the table, said, “Don’t go nowhere. I’m off to the can. When I get back, we’ll go upstairs and I’ll be a man for you.”
As he stumbled off, Chao gave me a sympathetic smile. “I don’t think your friend will hold his liquor long enough to make it upstairs.”
“It certainly will be a chore if he does,” I said. I gave the man a deep sigh. “I was looking forward to something more refined tonight.”
“He does act like he’ll be crude,” Chao said, looking down at a chip worth a thousand bucks U.S. he was rolling around in his fingers. “I may not look it,” he continued, “but in my active days I was a devotee of the Taoist techniques of Fangzhoushu. I still can be good with my hands. I can take care of a young man just with my hands.”
“Your active days?” I said. Alarm time perhaps. He was telling me he couldn’t get it up? That would explode this whole operation. “You only make love with your hands these days?”
“Alas, yes.”
“And you can find enjoyment in that?”
“With Fangzhoushu, one man can use his hands to take another to the moon and circle it three times. That is a saying we have. To have a beautiful young man like you to make love to with my hands would be all the enjoyment I would need.”
I contemplated that for a few minutes. It sounded really sexy. But it wasn’t what Winterberry had in his plans. “Hand work would be very nice,” I said, “but I’m sure you could be even more of a man for me—with my help. There are drugs these days, you know. Some very new ones that work a charm—guaranteed to get you hard and keep you hard for hours, with no bad effects afterward. Very refined.”
“Are there?” he asked, somewhat wistfully, indicating he would be interested in looking into that. “Are you saying you’d only go with me if I could come erect and penetrate you—that it wouldn’t be enough for me to bring you to completion three times in succession with my hands.”
So, that was the “around the moon three times” bit. It sounded even sexier than before. “You would want to be brought to completion as well, wouldn’t you?” I asked gently, laying a hand on his basket and rubbing the side of the cock inside. Just the glimmer of a reaction.
“Alas, I think those days are over,” he said, “but I do get enjoyment in bringing a beautiful young man off.”
So, having some form of sex with him was still in the cards—enough, I hoped, to make the resulting tape explicit. If I couldn’t get him up, I could writhe and moan under him for the cameras.
“I have these drugs,” I said, stroking the side of his shaft within his trousers. There was a sense of a bit more hardening there, and where there was still a sign of life, there was hope.
“I have them here in the hotel. They take effect quickly. I would help you. I would like to help you to a completion for yourself. I’m interested in these Taoist techniques you speak of. Fang what?” I asked. “Is there a translation for that?”
“Yes, the English for that is the ‘art of the bedchamber.’” He was breathing heavily and his hand was gripping my knee hard. He was hooked.
“Ah, and this you perform with young women?” We were beyond that, of course, but I couldn’t resist teasing him.
“I much prefer young men. Young men like you. Your dance on stage set my juices boiling. Your body is so flexible—you are in ideal shape to perform some of the Fangzhoushu positions. You give me hope. Do you think perhaps . . . ?” He’d stopped rolling the expensive chip in his fingers and held it out to me. “Perhaps before your boorish friend returns from the men’s room.”
“If we use the suite assigned to me,” I said. “The management here insists on that for the senior dancers.” One of the dangerous intersections in this maneuver was to get him into the suite with the cameras and recording devices in place. It was the same suite where Sam Winterberry had fucked me through that first night at the hotel casino, so he had me on tape too if a time came where they had to assert control over me. They would get me on tape injecting this man with sodium pentothal too, I was afraid. But there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about that.
“No problem,” he said. I took the chip from him. I wondered if Winterberry would let me keep it. His men—the men who had vacated these chairs—were watching from across the room, so I couldn’t hide that I’d received the gold chip.
The man might be dumpy but he did indeed know his Taoist techniques—and when we moved into employing his cock, he used ones in which his paunch didn’t intrude. But first I couldn’t resist what he’d said he could do with his hands. He hadn’t lied. I lay on the bed and he manipulated my body with his hands, pressing, pinching, rubbing, and gliding. He had worked me into a frenzy when he put his hand on my calves, moving them around to the interior and slowly gliding up my inner thighs, causing me to spread and raise my legs to a broadly open V all on my own strength as he brought his hands together on my cock and balls and then under them, with both hands going my center, fingers from both hands entering me. I rocked against the invading fingers. And eventually, as he had promised, I came three times in succession. Three times around the moon. He’d brought me off repeatedly with no cock work at all.
It then was my turn to bring him joy. He was tentative at first, apprehensive that he couldn’t, in the end, have a completion of his own. But I took him in hand when he two was stripped down, suggesting that I massage him as we waited for the drugs to take effect. I made nothing of what poor condition his body and appearance were in, treating him like he was a god to me, that the goal of him being able to penetrate me was what I wanted above all else. I used my hands and lips to increasingly make him pant and then, with faith in the drugs, to engorge. He had an unusually long cock and I hadn’t been lying about the enhancement drugs. I had them; he took them; and, after I slowly gave control over to him and managed to guide a hard shaft inside me to his wide-eyed panting in satisfaction, he remained rock hard through an hour of a Taoist sex techniques demonstration I myself knew, giving Winterberry and his team some scintillating video footage.
Once he had managed to go hard and realized that he would stay hard for a reasonable amount of time, Chao came alive sexually and demonstrated that he had once been a master of the art.
I wasn’t a novice to more refined positions. Some of the Taoist positions he introduced me to I’d experienced before. But some of them were new to me—and arousing, even if he was a short, dumpy, overweight, older man. The position was particularly satisfying where he was kneeling on his calves behind me and holding my waist and kissing my neck and shoulder blades as my legs flared back around his hips, my torso cantilevered out from his chest, and he pulled me on and off a deep-piercing rock-hard erection to a creaming in my soft core. The erection pill wasn’t the only one I had for him. I also dispensed the pills that let us bareback without the risk of STDs.
The last position was known to me, but was a favorite of mine when I was aroused by my partner. I couldn’t deny that this Chinese man, with his Taoist techniques, aroused me. We sat in a lotus position, facing and entangled, my buttocks on his thighs, his cock deep inside me again, throbbing and flowing and flowing as I moaned and sighed. The man had the cum of a bull. I came more that the three times of the moon that night.
When Sam Winterberry and his two henchmen intervened and introduced the Chinese gun dealer to reality, the U.S. agent played the scene to perfection. He pulled me off Chao, slapped me around and tossed me into the corner of the room, while the three of them worked Chao over a bit as well, being careful not to leave marks. When it was time to inject him with the sodium pentothal, they were dramatic about making me do it after I acknowledged that I knew how to give injections—that some of the sex drugs I used with men required that I know.
When Winterberry left the suite having establish control over Chao, gotten the Chinese man to admit he was running guns into Thailand to a drug warlord in a remote area, heard that Chao had been looking for some sort of gift to give the warlord, and Chao being offered me to go along with him and to let the warlord lay me as a gift, Winterberry left me to commiserate with Chao and, for a price, to agree to go into Thailand with him.
Nobody told Chao I’d be going wired, not that I was told where that wire would be to the point that I doubted there really would be that means to track and protect me. Chao, now unwillingly recruited as a double agent for the United States, believed that I was going only as a one-time gift and that he would bear the burden of gathering intelligence on the warlord’s operations for Winterberry.
* * * *
China has known to be isolationist back through its history, having little interest to expand or explore to a great distance from what it considered to be the superior, Central Kingdom, albeit it’s a kingdom of great size. Outsiders were supposed to come to it and kowtow. China had no need to go to them or conquer everyone. To them, everyone realized China was superior and was to be deferred to and gifted with tribute.
For many centuries China was ruled by an imperial system. All of that was shattered in the 1930s, with the rise of Communism and its takeover of power in the late 1940s and 1950s. Communism brought a new and radically different mind-set to the Central Kingdom. It also brought thoughts of expansion—of spreading the ideology of Communism more than acquiring more territory. This peaked in the 1960s through the 1980s with the Red Guards and Maoism, which gave rise to Maoist insurgent movements in neighboring countries. In Vietnam and Cambodia, the local movements prevailed in their country but instituted their own form of Communism. Maoist insurgencies popped up elsewhere, though—in the Philippines, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, Laos, Thailand, and Burma. By the turn of the twenty-first century, though, these movements had largely been suppressed by U.S. backed internal government crackdowns.
They had not entirely disappeared everywhere, though. In Thailand, for instance, pockets of what had been the CPT—the Communist Party of Thailand—continued to control remote territory along the Thai-Cambodian border area north of Poipet, in Thailand’s Surin Province. Here a warlord, Monkon Chaidee, under the banner of the CPT, ruled a sizable area of mountainous terrain, making occasional raids against Thai military installations and financing his operations with the cultivation of opium fields.
The mission of the Chinese arms dealer, Chao Tse-ho, that Sam Winterberry, with my forced help, had interdicted in Poipet was to deliver a shipment of assault rifles to Monkon Chaidee in Surin. Winterberry’s mission was not to stop the shipment but to trace where, specifically, it was going. The Thai army would grab the arms and, hopefully, wipe out the insurgents at the same time. My part of Winterberry’s mission was to go with the shipment, nominally as a deal-sweetening gift for a night with the known-gay Monkon Chaidee, and, with the tracing device claimed to be implanted on me to guide combined Thai and U.S. forces to the CPT warlord’s lair.
I continued to be doubtful about the device, though. I wasn’t knowingly wearing any such thing, and I assumed that, if Winterberry knew where the arms were starting out, there would be other sophisticated ways of tracing them to their destination. I thought the claimed bugging of me was just false assurance he was watching out for me.
I had come a long way from a gay man’s free clinic in a Chicago ghetto, and I was running even more on the edge than I ever had before.
Chao Tse-ho now was working for the U.S. government as much as for whoever his bosses were in Shanghai. Winterberry made clear to him that he was an asset now and they would take care of him so that he could return to China, declaring his mission accomplished, and continue to be helpful to the United States. The assault rifles would be delivered and the payment received. Only after delivery had been made and we were back across the Cambodian border in Poipet would the boom be lowered on the Thai warlord in Surin. Even then, Monkon Chaidee might not have discovered that the assault rifles had been tampered with so that, after brief use, they heated up, broke down, and became useless.
Separately, Winterberry assured me that, though they’d protect Chao, they would raid the warlord’s lair before he had gotten far with indulging in his deal-sweeting gift—me.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re trained in precision-time operations. We’ve done this many times before.”
Nonetheless I worried. I’m sure Chao worried as well.
Monkon Chaidee didn’t seem to be worried when, after ten hours of driving on pitted roads north from the Thai-Cambodian border at Poipet in four specially configured Land Rovers, with concealed storage bins in their undercarriages, we arrived in his mountain fastness. He met us with open arms and a grin, which broadened when Chao told him why I, a dancer and male prostitute at a big casino in Poipet, had been brought along. As a sign of good will, Chaidee could have me for an hour or so to do as he liked with. No one told me that Chaidee was a brutal man who would ride me to death, but I presumed that might be the case. I had already been running on the sharp edge of danger for too long.
I would have easily believed that Chaidee, appearing in camouflage fatigues and heavy combat boots, had earned his warlord position by being the biggest, most muscular, and most brutal insurgent in this remnant of the CPT. He was taller and stockier than anyone else in the camp. He was muscular, cruel and crude of demeaner, and so thuggish in features to be intriguing and arousing. He certainly was commanding. It was quite evident that his men universally respected and feared him and would die for him on command.
Like any good insurgent commander, Chaidee’s first attention went to the assault rifles he was purchasing by the exchange for opium. I hadn’t been told drugs were to be part of the exchange, or that I’d be participating in the possibility that these would enter the market.
After guiding Chao and me, first, to the latrine, and then to a nearby canvas-covered verandah, camouflaged, like the rest of the camp so as not to be discernible from the air, and making sure we had drinks, Chaidee supervised the unpacking of the Land Rover undercarriages. Piles of assault rifles were exchanged with burlap sacks filled with opium seed pods. The warlord looked through the rifles and selected four at random. Then he came back to the canvas-covered area and stood, hovering over where Chao and I were seated—in purposeful intimidation, I’m sure, while four of his men took the rifles to what obviously was a crude firing range nearby and tested them. The test was short, thank goodness, and all of the test rifles did their thing.
This was a moment of danger—one of several I could imagine. What would keep Chaidee from just shooting Chao, me, and everyone who had brought the arms here and keeping it all, both the arms and the drugs? Winterberry said it was because this wasn’t a one-off transaction. The Thai insurgents regularly did business with the arms merchants in Shanghai. Chaidee wouldn’t just cut that arrangement off. He assurances didn’t assure me, though—and I’d never been part of the deals. The “eat you alive” looks Chaidee was giving me made me fear he totally used up those he fucked. I had nothing but Winterberry’s assurances I’d be OK. Chao hadn’t shown any concern for me.
Smiling then, Chaidee reached down, grabbed me under the arms, and pulled me up out of my chair. He virtually carried me to a nearby cave opening I hadn’t noticed before, which proved to be his quarters, roughly stripped me down to my black-leather boots and wrist watch, tied me to his bed, on my back, with my arms spread and lashed to the posts at the head of the bed and my legs raised and spread and lashed to the tall posts at the foot of the bed. And he stripped down to his combat boots, showing an evil, upcurved erection, and mounted me. This was where the surprise came, though. As much as he was exhibiting macho to the world, he wanted to take cock in sex, not give it. When he mounted me, it was to sink on my cock and bounce up and down on it, riding it hard. He beat me while he rode me. I wasn’t any less threatened by his sexual attentions than I would be if he were the top.
I was going to die here in the jungle of the Thai-Cambodian border region and no one I ever knew before would have any idea what had happened to me.
If Winterberry’s plan had been to rescue me before the Thai warlord had brutally ridden and drained me, the plan wasn’t working. Chaidee had put men in this position before, I could tell. He knew just how to hold me in my bound position as he, first, ate my ass out, and then mounted me, took me in in maximum penetration, and rode me mercilessly. He was on top of me, choking me with one hand and jacking himself off with the other. This probably was worse than if he were fucking me. Surely his men didn’t know that he was a bottom. Surely, I wasn’t going to be left alive to tell anyone that. His gyrations were so violent that I came quickly. But that wasn’t enough. He continued riding me. He wanted to drain me and choke me out.
At first the resumption of gunfire didn’t disturb Chaidee. He probably thought his men had just decided to do more testing of the newly acquired rifles. But then a soldier stuck his head into the cave opening and yelled something at the warlord. Whatever he was yelling, though, was cutoff when a look of astonishment came across the soldier’s face and he fell on his face on the floor of the cave. Chaidee rolled off the bed and, naked other than his combat boots, grabbed up a rifle and rushed out of the cave.
Tied up as I was, I missed the brief battle outside, but it wasn’t long before a familiar face entered and said, in clear Americanese, “Well, look what we have here.” It wasn’t who I was expecting.
“You’re a little late, Mr. Allard,” I said, in admonishment. I had expected Winterberry, not Roger Allard, the guy from the American Embassy in Bangkok. But I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I looks like I’m just in time,” he said. “You know a firefight makes me horny.” I could believe that as he already had his cock out and he was in full erection.
Before I was freed Allard climbed aboard and fucked me. And as he was ending, Sam Winterberry entered the cave, and he mounted me and fucked me too. At least they didn’t double me. But some part of me wished they would.
“I know you’re grateful that we saved you,” he said as he was untying me—at last. It was OK with me; the danger had made me horny too. They both fucked well.
When I emerged from the cave, the Thai forces that Allard and Winterberry had arrived with were loading up the last of the insurgents they had been able to catch, alive or dead, mostly dead, into helicopters. There would be no trace the insurgents had ever been here when the Thai soldiers were finished. Monkon Chaidee hadn’t made it more than five steps out of the cave, He lay dead in the dirt. Chao was sitting where I’d left him, in a chair under the canvas awning. He was dead too, a bullet hole between the eyes. I’d heard a shot that sounded different and closer than the test firing of the assault rifles while Chaidee had been trussing me up on his bed. Some part of me had to believe that the insurgents had dispatched Chao, as I had feared, and that I was destined for the same fate after Chaidee had had his way with me.
“Pity,” Winterberry said, as he handed me into one of the Land Rovers we’d arrived in. “We really did intend to keep him alive and working for us.” He sounded a bit regretful, but not quite so interested in keeping his assets alive that I would have found comfort in his words.
I was driven back to Poipet and left off at the entrance of the Grand Diamond City Hotel and Casino, to resume my career as dancer and whatever else I might get into just as if I’d never been part of a major combined U.S. and Thai intelligence operation. Just as if I hadn’t been running right along the razor edge of danger.
Neither Roger Allard nor Sam Winterberry came back to Poipet with me.
To be continued.